


Fireside Dream

by Tipsylex



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-01
Updated: 2018-06-01
Packaged: 2019-05-16 22:26:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14820057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tipsylex/pseuds/Tipsylex
Summary: “Tell me, Harold,” he murmurs, “Tell me what you want.”





	Fireside Dream

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Luckythirteen45](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luckythirteen45/gifts).



> Beta'd by Zaniida, thanks for all the support and help, I couldn't have done this without you.

Harold sits at home, nursing a glass of whiskey. The room is dark except for the glow from the fire and the lamp on the table beside him. Harold sighs, and thinking of John, he raises his glass in silent salute to the man. John who had trusted him from the beginning, even though Harold's past was a mystery to him, who had brought him his favourite tea and doughnuts, the one who had protected him and rescued him more times than he could count. John who was everything he had wanted but had been too afraid to ask for.

_If only,_ he murmurs, _if only John had asked me._ He knows that he wouldn’t have told him anything at the beginning, but later, once they had established their working relationship… oh, if only he’d had the courage to trust John with his secrets. 

But now John is gone, killed by Samaritan. If Harold could turn back the clock, if he had a time machine, he’d go back to the beginning and maybe things could be different.

He shakes his head and murmurs _would be different._

Because he doesn’t have those things; all he has are regrets. A tear rolls down his cheek as he remembers all the things he’d wanted to say, should have had the courage to say, but never did. 

On the table in front of him is a photo, the only one he has of John as he had known him, that wasn’t merely surveillance footage; as he reaches to pick it up, a sob catches in his throat. John looks so handsome in his tuxedo. 

Time passes. 

The warmth of the room and the comfort of the chair, coupled with the whiskey and his pain medication make it hard to stay awake with his sorrow. Placing the photograph on his thigh, he strokes the soft, suede fabric of the chair; the firm cushions offer comfort as well as support. John had helped him choose it, claiming that it would help his back. “You were right, John,” he whispers running his fingers along the photograph, as though by touching it he could touch the man himself. He sighs out “The chair is wonderful”. He pushes back into the chair, settling himself and finding some comfort for his aching bones.

Slowly he nods off. The photograph slips from his fingers and flutters to the carpet, Harold’s glass drops onto the carpet with a soft thud, the remains of the whiskey seep into the wool. 

Harold dreams.

“Hello, Harold”, a familiar voice says. When Harold looks up, John is standing in front of him. With that same old cheeky smile, gets down on his knees and puts a hand on each of Harold’s legs. Harold sighs; John’s touch is firm and he can feel the warmth of his hands through the soft wool of his trousers. 

John moves closer; Harold can see the blue of his eyes. His hair hangs loose, longer and with more silver in it than Harold remembered. He’s dressed impeccably in the suit that Harold had altered for him. He remembers John at parade rest, while Harold measured his inside leg; and blushes to recall the light, semi-accidental brush of his hand over the outline of John’s cock. 

Harold watches John’s hands as they slowly move up his legs, the long slim fingers splayed over his thighs. He swallows, feeling a rush of desire; a quiet groan escapes his lips as his groin suddenly tightens.

John’s voice, when he speaks, is low and rasping, sending another shiver of longing through Harold.

“Tell me, Harold,” he murmurs, “Tell me what you want.”

Harold shifts in his chair, his arousal pressing against the buttons of his trousers. “You, John, I’ll always want you, and only you.”

He slips deeper into his dream: John is smiling, his eyes sparkling, skin tanned and glorious. Harold recalls those long hot summer stakeouts in New York. He wants to kiss those lips, touch that face, hold that man close and never let him go.

But John is dead, his mind reminds him. Because even in his dreams, he cannot pretend that the events of that horrible day never happened. And as the fire burns low and Harold's heart breaks all over again, the tears that had been building up in his eyes reach their breaking point and slide down his cheeks to be absorbed by his shirt collar.

 

Harold doesn’t hear the soft sound of the door opening, doesn’t see the shadowy figure slide in. The door closes quietly behind the man, who pauses and automatically assesses the security of the room. The large window is covered with a floor to ceiling curtain, thick enough to keep the heat in and prying eyes out. There are closed doors to other rooms; he mentally pictures a kitchen, bedroom and bathroom, but none of those matters to him. The rest of the furnishings are like those of the safe house, expensive but understated; as his eyes adjust to the dim light he can make out piles of books along the wall, and more on the table in front of Harold. Some of the corners look chewed up. John smiles, recalling Bear.

His recovery had taken months; even surviving the attack had been a miracle. Somehow, he’d been able to stumble away with only multiple GSW’s and some second degree burns. He couldn’t even remember how he’d got to the hospital before he’d collapsed. He might have given up entirely, were it not for one pressing goal: Find out if Harold was alive.

Slowly, hesitatingly, he makes his way to where Harold is sleeping, the plush carpet making his steps nearly soundless. He’s grateful: It disguises his limp.

 

He’s been thinking of this visit for months now, clinging to the thought as he fought his way through his recovery. When the pain was too intense, and he felt he couldn’t go on, he’d try to focus on it, this one thought for the future. The last thing he could do for Harold, before he leaves his life forever: make sure that he’s okay. 

John looks down at the sleeping Harold; he’s mostly out of it, but fidgeting in his seat, looking mildly agitated. There’s something on the floor, John kneels stiffly to pick them up, and freezes for a moment, realising that the photo is one of him. Back when he was handsome and whole.

As he stands up, placing the glass and photo on the table, he hears Harold murmur “You, John, I’ll always want you, and only you”. 

He takes a step back. He has to get away; it was a mistake to come here. Harold couldn’t possibly want him, not now, not like this, not broken and scarred as he is. As he always would be, now. 

He turns and tries to reach the door without making a sound, to be gone before Harold can rouse himself. But, in his panic, he stumbles and falls, biting back a gasp of pain at the impact to his damaged knee. 

While he’s kneeling there, doing his best not to scream, John watches in horror as Harold stirs, roused by the sound. As Harold opens his eyes, John freezes, hoping that Harold won’t see him, that he’ll just settle down and go back to sleep.

But Harold stiffly pushes himself up out of the chair, eyes still unfocused, and calls out “Who’s there?” 

When John remains silent, Harold takes the remote from the little table and turns up the lights, bathing the room in a soft glow, and revealing John on his knees near the front door.

Still muzzy from sleep, Harold takes a few halting steps forward, and asks quietly, desperately, “John? John, is that you? Am I still dreaming?” 

John hesitates for a moment before nodding. Harold’s answering smile takes his breath away.

Taking John’s arm, Harold helps him to stand, noting how John is slow, cautious, wincing -- so unlike the lithe, sleek, fluid movements of John’s past. 

Harold pauses to take in John’s appearance: the suit has seen better days, the hand trembling in his own, the eyes worn with bitter, pain-filled memories. When he searches John’s face for answers, John just gives a shrug and a ghost of a smile, like in the old days, as if to say, _it’s nothing._

“John, where have you been? why did it take you so long to get here?” Harold asks, the confusion bleeding out across his features. Then he glances behind him, at the door. “Or perhaps a better question should be why were you trying to leave?”

“I.. I heard what you said, in your sleep. You said that you wanted me but--”

“But what, John?” 

John shakes his head despairingly. “You don’t want me, Harold,” he whispers, “I’m no good to you or anyone anymore.”

He makes to move towards the door but Harold holds him back. 

“John, I do want you, I have always wanted you,” he said looking into John’s eyes, noticing a tear gathered in the corner just threatening to tip over and run down his face. Cradling John’s cheek in his hand, Harold wipes it away with his thumb, as he fights back his own tears. 

“Stay, John. Please”.

John twists awkwardly to face Harold, “I can’t run anymore. Hell, I can’t even hold a gun properly, much less shoot anyone. I can’t protect you, Harold, I--”

“And how is that better if you leave?” Harold cuts in. “Do you think that running away would protect me, somehow?”

“But I am no good to you like this!”

“It doesn’t matter! None of it matters! You’re here, now, you’re alive, and we can--”

“I can’t stay. Not like this. I have to--”

“John, I thought I had lost you once!” Harold’s voice trembles as he clutches at John’s sleeve, the room around him blurry through his tears. “Don’t make me lose you all over again.” It was hard for him to see through the tears in his eyes.

Whatever resolve John had left melted at those words. His face crumpled, he took a trembling step forward, and collapsed into Harold's arms, clinging tightly, like a child returned to its mother. As John trembled in Harold's arms Harold leant back slightly to look into his friend’s eyes. Slowly he drew their heads together, placing a soft kiss on John’s warm lips. A moment’s hesitation and John was returning the kiss.

* * *

Epilogue 10 minutes later

Breaking the kiss, Harold steps back and, taking John’s arm leads him to the sofa. As they sit down, Harold turns so that he could look John in the face.

Harold leans forward, his eyes on John’s lips, wanting another kiss. John raises his hand and gently stops Harold.

“Harold, we need to talk.”

“Yes, we do,” Harold replies, placing his hand over John's, pulling it to his chest. Can John feel the way his heart is racing? feel Harold's love and desire for him?

“You need better security, Harold. Do you know how easy it was for me to bypass your alarms? Anyone could have got in!” 

A smile quirks at Harold’s lips. “That’s not what I had in mind, but go on.”

“And what about that big window? Anyone can see in when the curtains are open.”

“There’s no one to look in, John, not anymore.”

“And I didn’t notice any cameras on the—“

“John, it doesn’t matter,” Harold says calmly. “Samaritan and the Machine are gone. You were dead. I don’t care about those things anymore. “

When John opens his mouth to protest, Harold places a finger over John’s lips, stilling them. 

“I don’t want to talk about security features! Don’t you realise how much I’ve missed you? All the things I never got to say to you… I want to say them now, all of them. I want to convince you how much you mean to me.”

“But—“

“No buts, John; there aren’t any threats, not anymore. Look, I’ll let you rig all the security parameters you like tomorrow, if you really insist. But it’s not necessary.”

“Harold… if that’s what you want.”

Harold scoots in closer, smiling at John, and takes John’s hand in his. Looking at the pale scars on the back of his hand, he touches them lightly, his brow furrowing in concern. 

“They don’t hurt, Harold, not anymore.” 

Harold looks up at John’s face; he touches John’s cheek, tracing his jawline with one finger, John leans into the touch.

“So handsome,” Harold murmurs, as his hand slides behind John’s head, drawing him into another kiss.


End file.
